THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


'     ":  CENTER 


2? 


THE  HOUR  HAS  STRUCK 

A  WAR  POEM 
AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

ANGELA  MORGAN 


NEW  YORK 

THE  ASTER  PRESS 

MDCCCCXIV 


PS 


Dedicated 

to 

the  world  movement  for  a  higher  brotherhood,  a 
more  dynamic  spirituality,  and  the  freeing  of  man 
kind  from  superstition,  poverty,  disease  and  war 
fare.  For  the  fulfillment  of  these — i-deals  and  for 
the  coming  of  that  liberated  womanhood  which 
is  to  bring  the  better  race,  the  author  feels  that 
the  Hour  Has  Struck. 


602187 


Copyright,  1914,  by  ANGELA  MORGAN. 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Everybody's 
Magazine,  The  Cosmopolitan,  Collier's  Weekly, 
Good  Housekeeping,  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal, 
The  Designer,  The  Delineator,  Ainslee's  Magazine, 
The  Pictorial  Review,  New  York  American,  To- 
Day's,  The  Congregationalist,  Flying,  and  other 
periodicals,  for  permission  to  reprint  these  poems. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Hour  Has  Struck  -                         9 

To-day          -  13 

In  The  Beginning    -  17 

Kinship                              -  -              19 

A  Song  of  Thanksgiving  _         21 

Know  Thyself      -                   -  -         -             24 

Room !     -  28 

II 

In  the  Woods  -  33 

What  Word  ?                                    -  -         -             34 

June  Rapture  -  37 

III 

Work    -  -         -             41 

Conquerors      -  -         44 

The  Passport                  -  -         -             46 

Stand  Forth !                          -                  -         -         -  48 

IV 

A  Song  of  Life  -         -         -         51 

The  Housewife's  Hymn  53 

The  Christmas  Miracle              -  •         -         57 

The  Dwelling  Place      ------  60 


Your  Coming  63 

Love's  Telepathy  64 

Magnolia  Moon  65 

Love's  Passing      -  66 

The  Trees  68 

VI 

Resurrection  71 

The  Libel  75 

God's  Man  77 

VII 

The  Woman  81 

How  Is  Filippa  To  Live  ?  83 

Christian  !    -  86 

The  Coming  Man     -  89 


THE  HOUR  HAS  STRUCK 


THE  HOUR  HAS  STRUCK. 

Now  let  the  people  stand  and  take  great  heed — 

The  time  is  ripe  for  the  immortal  deed, 

The  call  is  loud  for  the  untrammeled  man 

To  execute  God's  plan. 

Men  have  gone  back  unto  their  primal  greed, 

On  all  the  hopes  of  earth  have  they  gone  back, 

Traitors  to  faith  and  every  human  creed — 

Justice  and  Life  and  Truth  are  on  the  rack. 

A  Monster  crouches  on  the  breast  of  Time, 

Fiercer  than  Molloch,  filthier  than  crime, 

A  Monster  foaming  drunk  with  human  gore — 

Poets  may  sing  their  battle  hymns  no  more. 

Poets  no  more  their  battle  songs  may  raise, 

Nor  priest  nor  patriot  sound  their  putrid  praise- 

Their  blasphemies  were  smitten  from  the  pen, 

Their  voices  hushed  by  shrieks  of  dying  men. 

Let  him  who  tries 

To  light  his  lyric  by  those  crimson  skies 

Look  on  this  Monster  with  the  hideous  head, 

White  with  the  staring  eyeballs  of  the  dead. 

Let  him  behold  the  Terror  face  to  face, 

Demon  of  death,  destroyer  of  the  race. 


O  world,  what  is  this  Horror  ye  have  spawned? 

In  every  land  where  human  hope  has  dawned, 

Straddling  the  scarlet  centuries  of  waste, 

Travels  the  awful  Shape  that  Greed  has  traced. 

Here  have  men  fawned 

And  offered  up  their  veins  in  every  age 

To  feed  his  rage. 

Rome  pampered  him  and  Carthage  gave  her  strength; 

Down  all  the  ancient  length 

Of  Babylon  ami  Ninevah  and  Tyre 

His  hunger  made  of  earth  a  funeral  pyre. 

Proud  Egypt  poured 

Armies  and  ships  and  men,  a  precious  hoard, 

And  lavish  Persia  gave  her  thousand  fleets, 

Yet  all  Time's  judgment  seats 

And  all  Time's  penitence  may  not  atone 

For  broken  mother  hearts  that  bled  alone. 

Art,  commerce,  industry  and  human  fate, 

These  have  we  fed  the  fiend  insatiate. 

Man's  genius,  that  should  save  and  not  destroy, 

Has  been  his  toy. 


10 


And  gold  that  should  be  building  up  the  race, 

Feeding  a  starved  and  martyred  populace 

Has  gone  to  glut  the  Creature's  grinning  jaws 

And  magnify  his  cause. 

Rulers  of  blood,  from  Nero  back  to  Cain, 

And  onward  to  this  present  hour  of  pain, 

Have  gorged  him  with  their  million,  million  slain. 

Assyria  gave  her  host  of  flashing  spears, 

And  France  and  England  for  a  hundred  years, 

Yet  none  have  answered  for  the  people's  tears. 

What  are  we  waiting  for?    And  can  we  wait 

While  at  our  gate 

This  red  colossal  Shape  of  armored  Strife 

Fastens  its  fangs  upon  the  throat  of  Life? 

Whose  dragon  wings,  unfurled, 

Drip  blood  .  .  .  and  blood  .  .  .  and  blood  upon  the 

world? 

Wait!    While  the  demon  rears,  death-shod, 
Belching  his  scorn  upon  the  plans  of  God, 
His  bloated  belly  yawning  for  its  spoils, 
Progress  and  power  crushed  within  his  toils  ? 


11 


What  are  we  waiting  for?    Does  no  one  dare 
To  meet  the  grinning  Terror,  stare  for  stare? 
Lives  there  no  spirit  strong  enough  to  spring 
God-armed,  God-panoplied,  straight  at  the  vitals  of  the 

hideous  Thing? 

Are  we  so  caught  within  the  Creature's  spell, 
Like  children  babbling  at  the  door  of  hell, 
We  have  no  will  to  conquer,  to  compel? 
May  not  a  whole  world  rise 
And  fling  itsx protest  to  the  bleeding  skies?  .  .  . 

A  Monster  sprawls  upon  the  breast  of  Time — 

To  question  or  to  hesitate  were  crime, 

While  o'er  those  awful  battlefields  of  hate 

The  mothers  gaze,  too  late! 

It  is  the  world-command,  God's  judgment  call, 

Greater  than  all. 

The  hour  is  here  for  the  immortal  deed; 

For  huge,  majestic  action  ive  have  need — 

Now  let  the  people  stand — and  take  great  heed! 


12 


TO-DAY. 

To  be  alive  in  such  an  age ! 

With  every  year  a  lightning  page 

Turned  in  the  world's  great  wonder-book 

Whereon  the  leaning  nations  look. 

When  men  speak  strong  for  brotherhood, 

For  peace  and  universal  good; 

When  miracles  are  everywhere, 

And  every  inch  of  common  air 

Throbs  a  tremendous  prophecy 

Of  greater  marvels  yet  to  be. 

Oh,  thrilling  age! 

Oh,  willing  age  I 

When  steel  and  stone  and  rail  and  rod 

Become  the  utterance  of  God, 

A  trump  to  shout  his  thunder  through 

Proclaiming  all  that  man  may  do. 


13 


To  be  alive  in  such  an  age! 
When  man,  impatient  of  his  cage, 
Thrills  to  the  soul's  immortal  rage 
For  conquest — reaches  goal  on  goal, 
Travels  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole, 
Garners  the  tempests  and  the  tides, 
And  on  a  dream  triumphant  rides. 
When,  hid  within  a  lump  of  clay, 
A  light  more  terrible  than  day 
Proclaims  the  presence  of  that  Force 
Which  hurls  the  planets  on  their  course. 
Oh,  age  with  wings ! 
Oh,  age  that  flings 
A  challenge  to  the  very  sky 
Where  endless  realms  of  conquest  lie ! 
When  earth,  on  tiptoe,  strives  to  hear 
The  message  of  a  sister  sphere, 
Yearning  to  reach  the  cosmic  wires 
That  flash  Infinity's  desires. 


14 


To  be  alive  in  such  an  age! 

That  thunders  forth  its  discontent 

With  futile  creed  and  sacrament, 

Yet  craves  to  utter  God's  intent, 

Seeing  beneath  the  world's  unrest 

Creation's  huge,  untiring  quest, 

And  through  Tradition's  broken  crust 

The  flame  of  Truth's  triumphant  thrust; 

Below  the  seething  thought  of  man 

The  push  of  a  stupendous  plan. 

Oh,  age  of  strife! 

Oh,  age  of  life ! 

When  Progress  rides  her  chariot  high 

And  on  the  borders  of  the  sky 

The  signals  of  the  century 

Proclaim  the  things  that  are  to  be — 

The  rise  of  woman  to  her  place, 

The  coming  of  a  nobler  race. 


15 


To  be  alive  in  such  an  age! 

To  live  to  it! 

To  give  to  it! 

Rise,  soul,  from  thy  despairing  knees. 

What  if  thy  lips  have  drunk  the  lees? 

The  passion  of  a  larger  claim 

Will  put  thy  puny  grief  to  shame. 

Fling  forth  thy  sorrow  to  the  wind 

And  link  thy  hope  with  humankind; 

Breathe  the  world-thought,  do  the  world-deed, 

Think  hugely  of  thy  brother's  need. 

And  what  thy  woe,  and  what  thy  weal? 

Look  to  the  work  the  times  reveal ! 

Give  thanks  with  all  thy  flaming  heart — 

Crave  but  to  have  in  it  a  part. 

Give  thanks  and  clasp  thy  heritage.  .  .  . 

To  be  alive  in  such  an  age! 


16 


IN  THE  BEGINNING 

The  great  God  dreamed  a  dream  through  me, 

Mighty  as  dream  of  God  could  be; 

He  made  me  a  victorious  man, 

Shaped  me  unto  a  perfect  plan, 

Summoned  me  forth  to  radiant  birth 

Upon  the  radiant  earth. 

He  lavished  gifts  within  my  hand, 

Gave  me  the  power  to  command 

The  thundering  forces  that  he  hurled 

Upon  the  seething  world. 

Creation's  dream  was  wondrous  good 

Had  I  but  understood. 

The  great  God  dreamed  a  dream  through  me, 

But  I  was  blind  and  could  not  see. 

My  royal  gifts  were  laid  in  rust, 

For  parentage,  I  claimed  the  dust. 

Decay  and  sorrow,  age  and  blight — 

These  gifts  I  deemed  my  right. 


17 


The  great  God  spoke  a  word  through  me — 

That  word  was  Life.     How  can  It  be 

That  I,  in  God's  own  substance  made, 

Should  face  the  universe,  afraid? 

Born  of  eternal  life  am  I — 

Why  should  I  fail  and  die? 

O  God,  so  huge  was  thine  intent, 

So  greatly  was  thy  passion  spent, 

This  counterfeit  is  not  the  plan 

That  Thou  didst  dream  for  man. 

'Tis  this :    Man's  dream  must  mate  with  thine, 

Man's  word,  man's  life,  must  be  divine; 

Man  must  be  conscious  through  and  through 

To  nVake  Thy  dream  come  true ! 


18 


KINSHIP. 

I  am  aware, 

As  I  go  commonly  sweeping  the  stair, 

Doing  my  part  of  the  every-day  care — 

Human  and  simple  my  lot  and  my  share — 
I  am  aware  of  a  marvelous  thing: 
Voices  that  murmur  and  ethers  that  ring 
In  the  far  stellar  spaces  where  cherubim  sing. 

I  am  aware  of  the  passion  that  pours 

Down  the  channels  of  fire  through  Infinity's  doors; 
Forces  terrific,  with  melody  shod, 
Music  that  mates  with  the  pulses  of  God. 

I  am  aware  of  the  glory  that  runs 

From  the  core  of  myself  to  the  core  of  the  suns. 
Bound  to  the  stars  by  invisible  chains, 
Blaze  of  eternity  now  in  my  veins, 
Seeing  the  rush  of  ethereal  rains 

Here  in  the  midst  of  the  every-day  air — 
I  am  aware. 


19 


I  am  aware, 

As  I  sit  quietly  here  in  my  chair, 
Sewing  or  reading  or  braiding  my  hair — 
Human  and  simple  my  lot  and  my  share — 

I  am  aware  of  the  systems  that  swing 
Through  the  aisles  of  creation  on  heavenly  wing, 

I  am  aware  of  a  marvelous  thing. 
Trail  of  the  comets  in  furious  flight, 
Thunders  of  beauty  that  shatter  the  night, 
Terrible  triumph  of  pageants  that  march 
To  the  trumpets  of  time  through  Eternity's  arch. 
I  am  aware  of  the  splendor  that  ties 
All  the  things  of  the  earth  with  the  things  of  the 

skies, 

Here  in  my  body  the  heavenly  heat, 
Here  in  my  flesh  the  melodious  beat 
Of  the  planets  that  circle  Divinity's  feet. 
As  I  sit  silently  here  in  my  chair, 
I  am  aware. 


20 


A  SONG  OF  THANKSGIVING. 

Thank  God  I  can  rejoice 
In  human  things — the  multitude's  glad  voice, 
The  street's  warm  surge  beneath  the  city  light, 
The  rush  of  hurrying  faces  on  my  sight, 
The  million-celled  emotion  in  the  press 
That  would  their  human  fellowship  confess. 
Thank  Thee  because  I  may  my  brother  feed, 
That  Thou  hast  opened  me  unto  his  need, 
Kept  me  from  being  callous,  cold  and  blind, 
Taught  me  the  melody  of  being  kind. 
Thus,  for  my  own  and  for  my  brother's  sake — 
Thank  Thee  I  am  awake ! 

Thank  Thee  that  I  can  trust  I 

That  though  a  thousand  times  I  feel  the  thrust 

Of  faith  betrayed,  I  still  have  faith  in  man, 

Believe  him  pure  and  good  since  time  began — 

Thy  child  forever,  though  he  may  forget 

The  perfect  mold  in  which  his  soul  was  set. 

Thank  Thee  that  when  love  dies,  fresh  love  springs  up, 

New  wonders  pour  from  Heaven's  cup. 


21 


Young  to  my  soul  the  ancient  need  returns, 
Immortal  in  my  heart  the  ardor  burns ; 
My  altar  fires  replenished  from  above — 
Thank  Thee  that  I  can  love ! 

Thank  Thee  that  I  can  hear, 
Finely  and  keenly  with  the  inner  ear, 
Below  the  rush  and  clamor  of  a  throng 
The  mighty  music  of  the  under-song. 
And  when  the  day  has  journeyed  to  its  rest, 
I,o!  as  I  listen,  from  the  amber  west, 
Where  the  great  organ  lifts  its  glowing  spires, 
There  sounds  the  chanting  of  the  unseen  choirs. 
Thank  Thee  for  sight  that  shows  the  hidden  flame 
Beneath  all  breathing,  throbbing  things  the  same, 
Thy  Pulse  the  pattern  of  the  thing  to  be 
Thank  Thee  that  I  can  see ! 


22 


Thank  Thee  that  I  can  feel ! 
That  though  life's  blade  be  terrible  as  steel, 
My  soul  is  stript  and  naked  to  the  fang, 
I  crave  the  stab  of  beauty  and  the  pang. 
To  be  alive, 

To  think,  to  yearn,  to  strive, 
To  suffer  torture  when  the  goal  is  wrong, 
To  be  sent  back  and  fashioned  strong, 
Rejoicing  in  the  lesson  that  was  taught 
By  all  the  good  the  grim  experience  wrought. 
At  last,  exulting,  to  arrive     .     . 
Thank  God  I  am  alive ! 


23 


KNOW  THYSELF. 

Reined  by  an  unseen  tyrant's  hand, 
Spurred  by  an  unseen  tyrant's  will, 
Aquiver  at  the  fierce  command 
That  goads  you  up  the  danger  hill, 
You  cry:    "O  Fate,  O  Life,  be  kind! 
Grant  but  an  hour  of  respite — give 
One  moment  to  my  suffering  mind  I 
I  can  not  keep  the  pace  and  live." 
But  Fate  drives  on  and  will  not  heed 
The  lips  that  beg,  the  feet  that  bleed. 
Drives,  while  you  faint  upon  the  road, 
Drives,  with  a  menace  for  a  goad; 
With  fiery  reins  of  circumstance 
Urging  his  terrible  advance 
The  while  you  cry  in  your  despair, 
"The  pain  is  more  than  I  can  bear!" 


24 


Fear  not  the  goad,  fear  not  the  pace, 
Plead  not  to  fall  from  out  the  race — 
It  is  your  own  Self  driving  you, 
Your  Self  that  you  have  never  known, 
Seeing  your  little  self  alone. 
Your  Self,  high-seated  charioteer, 
Master  of  cowardice  and  fear, 
Your  Self  that  sees  the  shining  length 
Of  all  the  fearful  road  ahead, 
Knows  that  the  terrors  that  you  dread 
Are  pigmies  to  your  splendid  strength; 
Strength  you  have  never  even  guessed, 
Strength  that  has  never  needed  rest. 
Your  Self  that  holds  the  mastering  rein, 
Seeing  beyond  the  sweat  and  pain 
And  anguish  of  your  driven  soul 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  goal ! 


25 


Fighting  upon  the  terror  field 

Where  man  and  Fate  come  breast  to  breast, 

Prest  by  a  thousand  foes  to  yield, 

Tortured  and  wounded  without  rest, 

You  cried:    "Be  merciful,  O  Life — 

The  strongest  spirit  soon  must  break 

Before  this  all-unequal  strife, 

This  endless  fight  for  failure's  sake!" 

But  Fate,  unheeding,  lifted  high 

His  sword,  and  thrust  you  through  to  die. 

And  then  there  came  one  strong  and  great, 

Who  towered  high  o'er  Chance  and  Fate, 

Who  bound  your  wound  and  eased  your  pain 

And  bade  you  rise  and  fight  again. 

And  from  some  source  you  did  not  guess 

Gushed  a  great  tide  of  happiness — 

A  courage  mightier  than  the  sun — 

You  rose  and  fought  and,  fighting,  won ! 


26 


It  was  your  own  Self  saving  you, 

Your  Self  no  man  has  ever  known, 

Looking  on  flesh  and  blood  alone. 

The  Self  that  lives  as  close  to  God 

As  roots  that  feed  upon  the  sod. 

That  one  who  stands  behind  the  screen, 

Looks  through  the  window  of  your  eyes — 

A  being  out  of  Paradise. 

The  Self  no  human  eye  has  seen, 

The  living  one  who  never  tires, 

Fed  by  the  deep  eternal  fires, 

Your  flaming  Self,  with  two-edged  sword, 

Made  in  the  likeness  of  the  Lord. 

Angel  and  guardian  at  the  gate, 

Master  of  Death  and  King  of  Fate! 


27 


ROOM! 

I  will  hew  great  spaces  for  my  soul, 

Hours  of  majesty,  aisles  of  beauty; 

Out  of  the  solid  universe  will  I  hew  them 

That  my  perishing  soul  may  pass  through  them, 

That  my  passionate  spirit  have  room  to  grow, 

That  the  mind  of  me  may  not  suffer  so, 

That  I  faint  not  here  'mid  the  pitiful  round  of  duty — 

I  will  hew  great  spaces,  marvelous  places,  for  my  soul. 

I  will  hew  great  paths  for  my  soul, 

Out  of  the  shining  ether,  keen  as  quicksilver,  solid  as 

steel, 

To  know  what  the  Void  may  reveal. 
My  soul  that  is  shrivelling  here  on  earth 
Must  have  fresh  birth. 
That  the  claims  of  earth  may  not  bind  me, 
That  death  may  not  find  me, 

I  will  hew  great  spaces,  huge  places  of  life  for  my  soul. 
I  will  seek  me  a  way  no  man  has  trod, 
I  will  blaze  new  trails  to  the  heart  of  God. 


28 


That  my  soul  may  walk  wider  ways  than  earth, 

My  soul  and  the  souls  of  the  world — 

I  will  challenge  the  Void  where  the  secrets  of  life  are 

furled, 
I  will  cleave  new  paths,  that  all  may  have  fresh  birth. 

I  will  hew  great  windows  for  my  soul, 
Channels  of  splendor,  portals  of  release; 
Out  of  earth's  prison  walls  will  I  hew  them, 
That  my  thundering  soul  may  push  through  them; 
Through  stratas  of  human  strife  and  passion 
I  will  tunnel  a  way,  I  will  carve  and  fashion 
With  the  might  of  my  soul's  intensity 
Windows  fronting  immensity, 
Towering  out  of  Time. 
I  will  breathe  the  air  of  another  clime 
That  my  spirit's  pain  may  cease. 
That  the  being  of  me  have  room  to  grow, 
That  my  eyes  may  meet  God's  eyes  and  know, 
I  will  hew  great  windows,  wonderful  windows,  meas 
ureless  windows,  for  my  soul. 


29 


I  will  weave  great  melodies  for  my  soul, 

Storms  of  harmony,  hurricanes  of  feeling; 

Out  of  the  cosmic  rhythm  will  I  choir  them, 

Infinity's  breath  shall  inspire  them 

And  chorusing  orbs  in  their  wheeling. 

That  the  sadness  of  earth  may  not  'numb  me 

And  grief  overcome  me, 

Here  where  terror  and  strife  abound 

I  will  mount  and  mount  on  wings  of  sound; 

I  will  soar  on  symphonies  of  might, 

Lifted  and  carried 

Where  whirlwinds  are  married 

To  challenge  the  worlds  in  their  flight. 

That  earth  may  hear  and  rejoice 

I  will  summon  the  stars  for  their  voice; 

I  will  marshal  the  music  of  manifold  spheres, 

I  will  capture  the  chords  of  the  thundering  years, 

From  the  course  where  Aldebaran  runs 

I  will  summon  the  suns. 


30 


I  will  range  the  abysm  from  sun  to  sod, 

Spaces  ringing  and  singing  with  God, 

To  the  uttermost  bounds  of  being, 

Past  earthly  sense  and  seeing, 

Till  my  passionate  spirit  has  found  at  last 

A  splendid  place  in  the  splendid  vast. 

I,  I,  the  immeasurable  I,  greater  than  suns  or  stars  or 

spaces, 

Born  of  Creation's  boundless  places, 
I,  who  am  perishing  here  on  earth, 
I  will  rend  my  way  to  a  larger  birth. 
Fetters  and  bars,  I  will  shout  my  way  through  them; 
Planets  and  stars,  like  chaff  will  I  strew  them. 
That  my  spirit  may  hugely  survive, 
For  I  am  alive,  alive! 


31 


IN  THE  WOODS. 

Here  that  wide  Presence,  which  in  open  ways 

Diffuses  in  the  glare  of  common  things, 
Drowned  in  the  tumult  of  our  temporal  days, 

Lost  in  the  stress  of  selfish  clamorings, 
Regains  its  Being  in  the  eternal  hush; 

Gathers  in  close  communion  with  the  trees, 
Whispers  in  thrilling  messages  that  rush 

In  full  recovered  rapture  on  the  breeze. 

Listen — and  you  can  hear  it  singing  fine 

In  threadlike  melody  along  the  leaves. 
Look — and  it  leaps  in  light  upon  the  vine, 

Or  drips  in  magic  from  invisible  eaves. 
Here  throbs  the  heart  that  underlies  the  world, 

Its  pulses  naked  to  the  leaning  breast, 
Here  stream  the  primal  mysteries,  unfurled, 

Here  are  creation's  yearnings  full  confessed. 


33 


WHAT  WORD? 

Down  of  the  moth, 
Dust  of  ethereal  cloth, 
Lint  of  the  butterfly's  wing, 
Whence  did  you  spring? 
What  substance  was  caught 
And  cunningly  wrought 
Divinely  to  spin  you 
And  gently  begin  you  ? 
Are  you  made  of  sun  shimmer 
Or  firefly's  glimmer? 
Are  you  gathered  at  dusk 
From  invisible  husk, 
Borne  through  the  gloom 
To  mysterious  loom, 
There  to  be  taken, 
Sifted  and  shaken, 
Carefully  cloven, 
Wondrously  woven, 
Shredded  and  shaded, 
Winningly  braided, 


34 


Finished  and  flung 
Where  breezes  are  hung? 
Down  of  the  moth, 
Dust  of  ethereal  cloth, 
Lint  of  the  butterfly's  wing, 
Whence  did  you  spring? 

Down  of  the  moth, 

Dust  of  ethereal  cloth, 

Lint  of  the  butterfly's  wing, 

What  word  do  you  bring? 

At  the  looms  where  they  fashioned  you  faint  as 

a  breath, 

Did  your  making  mean  death? 
Such  is  the  penalty  here  on  the  earth 
For  fabrics  of  worth. 
Did  some  stunted  finger 
Caressingly  linger 
To  thresh  you 
And  mesh  you? 
Did  wan  women  die 
For  want  of  the  sky? 


35 


Such  is  the  sacrifice  mortals  must  make 

For  finery's  sake. 

Did  fair  elfin  children  whose  birthright  is  play 

The  penalty  pay? 

Did  they  drudge  in  the  dark 

To  powder  your  spark? 

Are  you  fashioned  of  blood,  are  you  fashioned  of 

pain, 

By  the  anguish  of  souls  do  you  measure  the  gain  ? 
Down  of  the  moth, 
Dust  of  ethereal  cloth, 
Lint  of  the  butterfly's  wing — 
What  word  do  you  bring? 


36 


JUNE  RAPTURE. 

Green!     What  a  world  of  green!     My  startled  soul 

Panting  for  beauty  long  denied, 

Leaps  in  a  passion  of  high  gratitude 

To  meet  the  wild  embraces  of  the  wood; 

Rushes  and  flings  itself  upon  the  whole 

Mad  miracle  of  green,  with  senses  wide, 

Clings  to  the  glory,  hugs  and  holds  it  fast, 

As  one  who  finds  a  long-lost  love  at  last. 

Billows  of  green  that  break  upon  the  sight 

In  bounteous  crescendos  of  delight, 

Wind-hurried  verdure  hastening  up  the  hills 

To  where  the  sun  its  highest  rapture  spills; 

Cascades  of  color  tumbling  down  the  height 

In  golden  gushes  of  delicious  light — 

God!     Can  I  bear  the  beauty  of  this  day, 

Or  shall  I  be  swept  utterly  away? 


37 


Hush — here  are  deeps  of  green,  where  rapture  stills, 
Sheathing  itself  in  veils  of  amber  dusk; 
Breathing  a  silence  suffocating,  sweet, 
Wherein  a  million  hidden  pulses  beat. 
Look!    How  the  very  air  takes  fire  and  thrills 
With  hint  of  heaven  pushing  through  her  husk. 
Ah,  joy's  not  stopped!     'Tis  only  more  intense, 
Here  where  Creation's  ardors  all  condense ; 
Here  where  I  crush  me  to  the  radiant  sod, 
Close-folded  to  the  very  nerves  of  God. 
See  now — I  hold  my  heart  against  this  tree. 
The  life  that  thrills  its  trembling  leaves  thrills  me. 
There's  not  a  pleasure  pulsing  through  its  veins 
That  does  not  sting  me  with  ecstatic  pains. 
No  twig  or  tracery,  however  fine, 
Can  bear  a  tale  of  joy  exceeding  mine. 


38 


Praised  be  the  gods  that  made  my  spirit  mad; 
Kept  me  aflame  and  raw  to  beauty's  touch. 
Lashed  me  and  scourged  me  with  the  whip  of  fate; 
Gave  me  so  often  agony  for  mate; 
Tore  from  my  heart  the  things  that  make  men  glad- 
Praised  be  the  gods !    If  I  at  last,  by  such 
Relentless  means  may  know  the  sacred  bliss, 
The  anguished  rapture  of  an  hour  like  this. 
Smite  me,  O  Life,  and  bruise  me  if  thou  must; 
Mock  me  and  starve  me  with  thy  bitter  crust, 
But  keep  me  thus  aquiver  and  awake, 
Enamoured  of  my  life,  for  living's  sake ! 
This  were  the  tragedy — that  I  should  pass, 
Dull  and  indifferent  through  the  glowing  grass. 
And  this  the  reason  I  was  born,  I  say — 
That  I  might  know  the  passion  of  this  day! 


39 


WORK. 
A  SONG  OF  TRIUMPH 

Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  might  of  it, 

The  ardor,  the  urge,  the  delight  of  it — 

Work  that  springs  from  the  heart's  desire, 

Setting  the  brain  and  the  soul  on  fire — 

Oh,  what  is  so  good  as  the  heat  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  glad  as  the  beat  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  kind  as  the  stern  command, 

Challenging  brain  and  heart  and  hand? 

Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  pride  of  it, 

For  the  beautiful,  conquering  tide  of  it, 

Sweeping  the  life  in  its  furious  flood, 

Thrilling  the  arteries,  cleansing  the  blood, 

Mastering  stupor  and  dull  despair, 

Moving  the  dreamer  to  do  and  dare. 

Oh,  what  is  so  good  as  the  urge  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  glad  as  the  surge  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  strong  as  the  summons  deep, 

Rousing  the  torpid  soul  from  sleep  ? 


41 


Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  pace  of  it, 

For  the  terrible,  keen,  swift  race  of  it; 

Fiery  steeds  in  full  control, 

Nostrils  aquiver  to  greet  the  goal. 

Work,  the  Power  that  drives  behind, 

Guiding  the  purposes,  taming  the  mind, 

Holding  the  runaway  wishes  back, 

Reining  the  will  to  one  steady  track, 

Speeding  the  energies  faster,  faster, 

Triumphing  over  disaster. 

Oh,  what  is  so  good  as  the  pain  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  great  as  the  gain  of  it? 

And  what  is  so  kind  as  the  cruel  goad, 

Forcing  us  on  through  the  rugged  road? 


42 


Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  swing  of  it, 
For  the  clamoring,  hammering  ring  of  it, 
Passion  of  labor  daily  hurled 
On  the  mighty  anvils  of  the  world. 
Oh,  what  is  so  fierce  as  the  flame  of  it? 
And  what  is  so  huge  as  the  aim  of  it? 
Thundering  on  through  dearth  and  doubt, 
Calling  the  plan  of  the  Maker  out. 
Work,  the  Titan ;  Work,  the  friend, 
Shaping  the  earth  to  a  glorious  end, 
Draining  the  swamps  and  blasting  the  hills, 
Doing  whatever  the  Spirit  wills — 
Rending  a  continent  apart, 
To  answer  the  dream  of  the  Master  heart. 
Thank  God  for  a  world  where  none  may  shirk- 
Thank  God  for  the  splendor  of  work! 


43 


CONQUERORS. 

Ye  who  ascend  into  the  cosmic  blue, 
Pledged  to  the  glory  of  a  mighty  cause, 
Clean-stript  of  cowardice,  of  self  devoid, 
Laughing  to  see  the  sudden  yearning  jaws 
Of  Death  below  you  in  the  swimming  void — 
How  shall  we  name  a  tribute  fit  for  you? 
How  shall  we  build  a  monument  whose  height 
Shall  match  the  marvel  of  your  splendid  flight? 

Soldiers  ye  are,  before  whose  glorious  deed 
Praise  topples  prone  and  petty  lips  are  dumb. 
Ye  gladly  forfeit  life  and  all  it  brings, 
That  in  the  kindling  centuries  to  come, 
Men,  free  as  gods,  shall  cleave  the  air  with  wings, 
Shall  stride  their  superstitions  as  a  steed; 
Mounting  with  ecstasy  the  waiting  herds 
Of  willing  clouds,  unfettered  as  the  birds. 


44 


Brave  navigators  ye,  in  ships  of  air, 
Heralds  of  progress,  servants  of  the  race. 
Great  as  Columbus  was  and  yet  more  bold, 
Ye  plumb  the  regions  of  uncharted  space 
That  millions  now  unborn  shall  yet  be  told 
How  mind  has  conquered  matter  everywhere 
Ye  dare,  that  man  may  see  himself  supreme — 
Lord  of  the  air,  and  Master  of  his  Dream. 


45 


THE  PASSPORT. 

The  soul  is  stronger  than  its  sin, 
The  man  is  greater  than  his  crime; 
All  forces  urge  the  upward  climb 
And  help  the  fallen  one  to  win. 
No  more  may  pulpits  preach  the  lie 
The  centuries  have  stumbled  by     .     . 
The  man  is  higher  than  his  fall, 
Else  he  were  never  man  at  all. 

O  soul,  who  kneelest  in  the  dust, 
Stand  up  and  face  the  noonday  light; 
Stand  up !  and  make  thy  gallant  fight 
The  man  is  larger  than  his  lust. 
Though  dogma  trample  thee  to  hell, 
Press  on.  I  tell  thee,  all  is  well. 
No  sin,  no  shame,  can  shackle  thee, 
For  thou  art  God's  and  God  is  free ! 


46 


The  world  may  sneer  thine  upward  climb, 
But  thou  art  greater  than  thy  crime. 
Press  on,  press  on,  nor  be  afraid. 
Would  God  condemn  the  thing  he  made  ? 
Hurl  thou  thy  cry  'gainst  heaven's  gate — 
God  must  admit  thee,  soon  or  late. 
Thy  passport  ?    Saints  could  ask  no  more 
His  Image  at  thy  very  core  I 


47 


STAND  FORTH  I 

Stand  forth,  my  soul,  and  grip  thy  woe, 
Buckle  thy  sword  and  face  thy  foe. 
What  right  hast  thou  to  be  afraid 
When  all  the  universe  will  aid? 
Ten  thousand  rally  to  thy  name, 
Horses  and  chariots  of  flame. 
Do  others  fear?    Do  others  fail? 
My  soul  must  grapple  and  prevail. 
My  soul  must  scale  the  mountain  side 
And  with  the  conquering  army  ride — 
Stand  forth,  my  soul ! 

Stand  forth,  my  soul,  and  take  command. 

'Tis  I,  thy  master,  bid  thee  stand. 

Claim  thou  thy  ground  and  thrust  thy  foe, 

Plead  not  thine  enemy  should  go. 

Let  others  cringe !    My  soul  is  free, 

No  hostile  host  can  conquer  me. 

There  lives  no  circumstance  so  great 

Can  make  me  yield,  or  doubt  my  fate. 

My  soul  must  know  what  kings  have  known, 

Must  reach  and  claim  its  rightful  throne — 

Stand  forth,  my  soul ! 

48 


I  ask  no  truce,  I  have  no  qualms, 
I  seek  no  quarter  and  no  alms. 
Let  those  who  will  obey  the  sod, 
My  soul  sprang  from  the  living  God. 
'Tis  I,  the  king,  who  bid  thee  stand; 
Grasp  with  thy  hand  my  royal  hand- 
Stand  forth  I 


49 


A  SONG  OF  LIFE. 

Say  not,  "I  live  I" 

Unless  the  morning's  trumpet  brings 
A  shock  of  glory  to  your  soul, 

Unless  the  ecstasy  that  sings 
Through  rushing  worlds  and  insects'  wings, 

Sends  you  upspringing  to  your  goal, 
Glad  of  the  need  for  toil  and  strife, 

Eager  to  grapple  hands  with  Life — 
Say  not,  "I  live." 

Say  not,  "I  live!" 

Unless  the  energy  that  rings 
Throughout  this  universe  of  fire 

A  challenge  to  your  spirit  flings, 
Here  in  the  world  of  men  and  things, 

Thrilling  you  with  a  huge  desire 
To  mate  your  purpose  with  the  stars, 

To  shout  with  Jupiter  and  Mars — 
Say  not,  "I  live." 


51 


Say  not,  "I  live!" 

Such  were  a  libel  on  the  Plan 
Blazing  within  the  mind  of  God 

Ere  world  or  star  or  sun  began. 
Say  rather,  with  your  fellow  man, 

"I  grub;  I  burrow  in  the  sod." 
Life  is  not  life  that  does  not  flame 

With  consciousness  of  whence  it  came — 
Say  not,  "I  live!" 


52 


THE  HOUSEWIFE'S  HYMN. 

0  God,  I  thank  Thee  I 

With  every  glowing  part  of  me, 
From  the  whole  heart  of  me, 

1  thank  Thee,  God  I 

How  shall  I  say  it  ?    What  the  words  to  tell 
The  warm,  sweet  glory  and  the  bosom  swell? 
Forgive  the  language  of  my  simple  tongue; 
I  cannot  say  what  wiser  ones  have  sung. 
Listen,  and  I  will  tell  it,  God,  in  my  own  way ; 
For  I  must  speak  it  on  this  wonder  day. 

Somehow,  Father — be  it  not  shame  to  me  I — 
'Tis  in  such  humble  ways  I  compass  Thee. 
I  seem  to  see  Thee  in  the  simplest  things: 
Foamy  water  that  bubbles  and  sings, 
Bursting  in  rainbows  over  the  washtub's  rim; 
The  clean,  sweet  clothes  filling  my  basket  to  the  brim- 
How  white  they  flutter  at  the  wind's  brisk  will 
That  whips  them  whiter  still  1 


53 


And  when,  over  the  ironing-board  billowing  clover- 
sweet, 

They  smooth  to  satin  beneath  the  friendly  heat, 
I  feel  such  thrill  of  happiness.    .    .    Forgive  me,  Lord, 
If  praise  like  mine  should  not  accord! 

God,  I  am  one  who  cannot  understand 

The  fearful  works  of  Thy  mysterious  hand, 

The  great  immensity  that  swings  above ; 

The  thing  I  understand  is  human  love. 

Yea,  human  love  and  human  things :  the  touch 

Of  well-worn  objects  that  I  love  so  much — 

Cushion  and  chair,  dishes  and  pan  and  broom, 

The  comradeship  of  a  familiar  room; 

My  plants  there  in  the  window,  and  the  glow 

Of  shining  tin  things  hanging  in  a  row. 

Scorn,  if  Thou  wilt,  my  common  human  way — 

I  must  speak  truth  and  only  truth  this  day. 

O  God,  I  seem  to  find  Thee  everywhere ! 
The  steam  that  rises  from  the  kettle  there 
Seems  more  a  miracle,  somehow,  to  me 
Than  all  the  heavenly  marvels  that  I  see. 


54 


The  hum  of  dear  things  cooking  on  the  range 

Fills  me  with  rapture ;  Father,  is  it  strange 

Since  these  Thy  products  are  of  grain  and  food 

And  Thou  Thyself  hast  called  them  very  good? 

And  is  it  wrong,  O  God — my  surging  pride 

When  the  rejoicing  oven  door  swings  wide 

On  russet  bakings  I  have  made  to  feed 

My  hungry  brood?    Thou  knowest,  Lord,  their  need. 

Thou  knowest  how  they  lean  to  me  for  life ; 

Even  the  strong,  brave  man  who  calls  me  wife — 

The  father  of  my  flock — must  look  to  me 

For  blood  and  sinew  and  the  strength  to  be. 

This,  then,  the  greatest,  dearest  thing  of  all — 

To  know  that  I  may  answer  to  their  call; 

That  Thou  hast  made  me  mother,  friend  and  mate, 

Keeper  of  life  and  molder  of  their  fate. 

By  this  I  know  the  universe  as  Thine — 

That  hearts  and  homes  and  people  are  divine ! 

Is  there  a  greater  gift  in  all  Thy  store? 

My  woman's  heart  is  full — I  ask  no  more. 


55 


0  God,  I  thank  Thee  I 

With  every  glowing  part  of  me, 
From  the  whole  heart  of  me, 

1  thank  Thee,  God  I 


56 


THE  CHRISTMAS  MIRACLE. 

Do  you  know  the  marvel  of  Christmas  time, 

The  miracle  meaning  of  song  and  chime, 

Of  hearty  love  and  huge  good  will, 

Of  feasts  that  gladden  and  gifts  that  spill? 

Do  you  know  what  happens  to  homes  and  men 

When  Christmas  love  is  abroad  again? 

Could  you  look  beneath,  you  would  see  the  rush 

Of  a  flood  as  real  as  a  river's  gush; 

A  torrent  wonderful,  deep  and  wide, 

That  sweeps  the  world  in  its  magic  tide. 

Oh,  it  isn't  the  gift,  and  it  isn't  the  feast; 

Of  all  the  miracles,  these  are  least. 

It's  the  good  that  flows  from  the  hearts  of  men 

When  Christmas  love  is  abroad  again. 

For  wishes  are  real,  and  love  is  a  force, 

And  the  tide,  which  ages  ago  had  source 

In  the  heart  of  a  babe,  has  grown  and  gained 

Till  all  humanity,  single-veined, 

Answers  the  call  of  the  mighty  surge, 

Swings  to  the  great  resistless  urge. 


57 


Oh,  vain  is  the  boast  of  the  hardened  one 
Who  scouts  what  the  centuries  have  done. 
Be  he  ever  so  mean,  be  he  ever  so  cold, 
Though  his  heart  be  flint  and  his  claim  be  bold, 
His  veins  will  tingle,  his  pulses  thrill, 
To  the  sound  of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will !" 
Why,  even  the  man  who  grips  his  purse 
With  a  stingy  mouth  and  a  cruel  curse 
Must  yield  to  the  flood  and  be  borne  away 
To  join  in  the  glory  of  Christmas  Day. 

Have  you  guessed  the  secret  of  Christmas  night, 

When  the  whole  world  loves  with  all  its  might, 

When  the  whole  world  gives  with  a  lavish  hand 

And  joy  is  awake  throughout  the  land? 

Do  you  know  the  marvel  that  happens  then 

In  the  glow  that  goes  from  the  hearts  of  men? 

Have  you  looked  beneath,  have  you  seen  the  fire 

That  leaps  from  the  soul  of  a  great  desire — 

A  warmth  as  real  as  the  heat  that  springs 

From  the  hearth  where  the  great  log  laughs  and  sings? 


58 


Oh,  it  isn't  the  holly,  it  isn't  the  snow, 

It  isn't  the  tree  or  the  firelight  glow; 

It's  the  flame  that  goes  from  the  hearts  of  men 

When  Christmas  love  is  abroad  again. 

'Tis  the  laughter  of  children,  quivering  high 

In  a  shower  of  radiance  to  the  sky. 

For  wishes  are  real,  and  love  is  a  force, 

And  the  torch  which  ages  ago  had  source 

In  the  star  that  lighted  the  wise  men's  way 

Burns  with  a  magical  fire  to-day. 

So  great  the  shining,  so  pure  the  blaze, 

It  reachces  beyond,  through  the  stellar  ways, 

Till — listen !     A  wind  voice  told  it  me — 

Our  globe  that  swims  in  ethereal  sea 

Glows  like  a  lamp  whose  flame  is  love 

To  the  other  worlds  that  swing  above; 

And  this  the  signal  that  makes  them  know 

We  have  hearths  and  homes  and  cheer  below. 

Why,  gods  and  angels  walk  by  the  light 

That  streams  from  the  earth  on  Christmas  night! 


59 


THE  DWELLING  PLACE. 

Dawn;  and  a  star;  and  the  sea  unfurled; 
And  a  miracle  hush  hanging  over  the  world 
And  I  standing  lone  by  the  edge  of  the  sea — 
When  lo,  God  came  and  spoke  to  me. 
He  spoke  to  me,  and  I  hid  my  face, 
For  a  wide  white  glory  illum'ed  the  place. 
And  I  bowed  me,  trembling:    "Oh,  God,"  I  cried, 
"Is  it  here  that  thy  Presence  thou  dost  hide? 

"Hast  thou  always  dwelt  mid  the  sea  and  sky 
In  the  hush  that  quivers  when  day  is  nigh? 
I  have  sought  thee  long,  but  have  sought  in  vain, 
Through  years  of  trial,  through  nights  of  pain, 
And  all  the  while  thou  wert  waiting  far 
In  the  wave,  in  the  dawn,  in  the  paling  star! 
Had  I  known,  O  God,  of  thy  dwelling  place 
I  might  long  ago  have  seen  thy  face!" 


60 


But  God  made  answer,  "Not  in  the  star, 
Or  the  dawn,  or  the  wave,  did  I  wait  afar. 
O,  child  of  mine,  I  was  close  to  thee — 
Thou  wert  always  held  in  the  arms  of  me. 
But  only  now  are  thine  eyes  unsealed 
And  my  Ever-presence  to  thee  revealed. 
Go,  turn  thee  back  to  the  world  of  men; 
Thou  shalt  never  search  in  vain  again. 

"On  the  darkest  days  thou  shalt  see  my  light, 
My  eyes  shall  look  from  the  eyes  of  night; 
In  the  voices  of  children  my  voice  shall  ring, 
My  splendor  shine  in  the  humblest  thing. 
Thy  daily  task — it  shall  thrill  with  me, 
For  I  shall  be  near  to  commune  with  thee. 
O   child,  this  moment  thy  breath  is  mine. 
Hush — listen !     My  pulse  beats  now  with  thine." 

Dawn;  and  a  star;  and  the  sea  unfurled; 
And  a  miracle  hush  hanging  over  the  world. 


61 


YOUR  COMING. 

If  melody  could  blossom  into  color, 
If  chime  of  bells  could  shower  into  light, 

If  song  could  swell  in  radiance  full  and  fuller — 
Such  were  your  coming,  dearest,  to  my  sight. 

If  radiance  had  a  voice  of  rapture, 

If  light  were  song,  and  color  melody — 

Such  were  the  music  that  my  senses  capture 
When  in  your  loveliness  you  lean  to  me ! 


63 


LOVE'S  TELEPATHY. 

Oh,  you  are  near,  my  love,  so  near  tonight 
That,  sitting  in  the  dusk  and  silence  here, 

With  miles  between,  I  feel  your  spirit's  might, 
I  know  your  heart's  whole  message  to  me,  dear. 

The  dark  is  golden  with  you,  music-filled ; 

My  reaching  thoughts  have  drawn  you,  you  are  mine. 
So  near  you  are,  I  feel  your  touch,  love-thrilled, 

The  magic  of  you  makes  the  moments  wine. 

Love — you  are  here !    Your  arms  about  me  fold. 

O !  blinding  rapture  of  this  certainty. 
OI  storm  of  stars,  O!  universe  of  gold 

Wherein  I  love  my  love,  and  he  loves  me ! 


64 


MAGNOLIA  MOON. 

Magnolia  moon, 

Blossoming  out  of  the  trees, 
Blown  by  the  breeze 
Straight  from  the  warm  white  heart  of  June — 

Magnolia  moonl 

Leave  thy  mist  meadows,  lean  unto  my  sweet; 
Shower  her  casement  deep  with  luminous  petals  fleet; 
Breathe  to  her,  shine  to  her    all  my  coward  lips 

would  say 

Yet  dare  not  utter  as  a  lover  may, 
The  times  I  fling  me  worldless  at  her  feet — 

Dumb,  drowned  in  ecstasy,  afraid  to  look,  to  touch, 

to  sigh. 

Tell  her  I  love  her — that  I  die 
Because  of  her,  magnolia  moon! 

Into  this  plea  I  pour  myself  with  might; 
Oh,  serve  me — serve  me  well  this  night, 

Magnolia  moon, 
Blown  from  the  passionate  white  heart  of  June ! 


65 


LOVE'S  PASSING. 

A  child,  I  lay  upon  my  bed, 

Craving  the  light. 
The  darkness  caverned  me  with  dread — 

Vast,  merciless  the  night. 
Sudden  a  sound  that  broke  the  terror  spell, 

A  rustle  on  the  stair,  a  creaking  floor, 
The  dear  maternal  step  I  knew  so  well, 

And  then  a  rush  of  radiance  at  the  door! 
But  ere  my  childish  passion  of  relief 

Could  vent — "Hush,  go  to  sleep!" — her  firm  com 
mand. 
The  door  closed  cruelly  upon  my  grief; 

The  saving  light  had  vanished  in  her  hand. 

A  woman,  yearning  for  illumining 

Along  the  bitter  path  I  trod  alone, 
I  prayed  impassion'dly  the  fates  might  bring 

Some  radiance  from  the  great  unknown. 


66 


A  desolation  blacker  than  the  night 

Of  childish  fears  was  mine,  when  lo,  one  day — 
All  my  starved  being  reaching  for  the  light — 

Love's  miracle  spilled  stars  upon  my  way  I 
But  as  I  gazed 

My  whole  life  thrilling  to  the  gold — 
Joy-blinded,  bliss-submerged — amazed, 

I  saw  the  magic  pass.    The  dream  was  told. 

O  God !    Are  not  we  mortals  worthy  love, 

That  it  should  shine  on  us  such  little  while; 
Just  a  soul's  gasp — heaven's  curtain  rent  above, 

Pouring  upon  our  sight  an  angel's  smile — 
And  then — "Hush,  hush — not  yet!"  the  dread  com 
mand; 

The  smothered  glory  and  the  vanished  spark; 
The  loved  lamp  taken  by  an  unseen  hand, 

Leaving  us  sobbing  in  the  dark? 


67 


THE  TREES. 

The  trees  are  my  lovers,  the  trees  in  their  awful  foun 
dation, 

Their  socket  of  soundless  creation; 
Plumbing  the  earth  with  their  wonderful  wires, 
Upthrusts  of  energy,  sprung  from  the  fires 

^ 

Of  primeval  desires. 

Oh,  the  awe  of  their  hushed  understanding, 

Their  mighty  commanding! 

Towers  of  tenderness  flung  to  the  sky 

To  message  the  call  of  the  deep  to  the  high, 

To  carry  the  hurt  of  such  lovers  as  I. 

Trees  will  not  mock  me, 

Trees  will  not  yield  a  cold  embrace  to  shock  me, 

Nor  quench  my  fires  with  nerveless  inattention, 

With  stupid,  human  lack  of  comprehension. 

Trees  do  not  turn  an  unresponsive  cheek 

When  I  the  hunger  of  my  soul  would  speak. 

Forever  are  they  comrade  to  the  core 

Where  earth's  tremendous  energies  have  store, 

Their  sources  fathom  leagues  beneath  the  sod, 

Sunk  in  the  throbbing  dynamo  of  God. 


68 


In  the  dusk,  in  the  sweet, 

I  can  hear  their  hearts  beat     . 

Their  branches  outreaching 

In  tender  beseeching, 

Their  leaves  live  and  burning 

With  beautiful  yearning. 

Oh,  the  love — oh,  the  healing — 

The  exquisite  feeling! 

With  all  my  adoring 

I  heed  their  imploring     .     .     . 

The  trees  are  my  lovers. 


69 


RESURRECTION. 

Lo!     Mid  the  splendor  of  eternal  spaces, 

Pierced  by  the  smile  of  God, 
I  looked  last  night  upon  celestial  faces, 

The  singing  ethers  trod. 
World  upon  world  in  rhythmic  measure  wheeling — 

Millions  of  blazing  suns  like  censers  swung; 
When  down  the  lanes  of  light  a  voice  came  pealing, 

Upon  my  ear  its  clarion  message  flung: 
"To-day  is  Resurrection !    Look  not  hence 

To  some  far  distant  trumpet  call  to  sound 
That  hour  when,  as  the  spirit's  recompense, 

Man's  body  shall  be  summoned  from  the  ground. 
O  feeble  souls  bound  close  with  superstition, 

O  blind  and  halt  and  deaf  that  will  not  hear, 
There  is  no  other  miracle  fruition 

Than  thrills  the  Cosmos  now  from  sphere  to  sphere ! 


71 


"Earth  at  this  hour  is  shaken  with  the  passion 

Of  Resurrection  fire. 
Stupendous  forces  move  and  mold  and  fashion 

Unto  God's  great  desire. 
The  only  death  is  death  in  man's  perception; 

The  only  grave  is  grave  of  blinded  eyes; 
Creation's  marvel  mocks  at  man's  deception — 

It  is  man's  mind  that  from  its  tomb  must  rise ! 
To-day  is  Resurrection !    Take  the  word, 

Cry  it  aloud  to  all  the  waiting  earth: 
To-day  is  Resurrection !    Thou  hast  heard — 

Man  must  arise  unto  a  nobler  birth. 
'Tis  human  thought  alone  is  dead  and  sleeping, 

From  orb  to  orb  God's  world  flames  wide  awake. 
From  vast  to  vast  dynamic  tides  are  sweeping — 
Not  God's  the  fault  that  man  will  not  partake. 


72 


"Earth  is  no  fated  orb  flung  out  to  nourish 

An  aimless,  empty  vast — 
Aloof,  alone,  its  little  while  to  flourish, 

Robbed  of  its  fire  at  last. 
In  all  God's  scheme  there  is  no  separation, 

There  is  no  Yonder  and  there  is  no  Void; 
One  Lightning  Presence  runs  through  all  Creation- 
Links  earth  and  star  and  sun  and  asteroid. 
The  spur  that  speeds  Orion  on  his  way 

Thrills  in  man's  fingers;  every  impetus 
Of  star  and  sun  is  ours;  or  night  or  day, 

The  torch  that  lights  the  Pleiades  lights  us. 
Arcturus'  ecstasy  and  man's  may  mingle; 

One  goal  unites  and  beckons  to  us  all ; 
From  stone  to  star  no  destiny  is  single — 

All  are  embraced  within  one  Cosmic  Call. 


73 


"Waken,  O  world,  if  ye  would  glimpse  the  wonder 

Of  God's  great  Primal  Plan! 
Open,  O  ears,  if  ye  would  hear  the  thunder 

Hurled  from  the  heights  to  man! 
How  long  shall  Christ's  high  message  be  rejected? — 

Two  thousand  years  have  passed  since  it  was  told. 
Must  One  again  be  born  and  resurrected, 

E'er  man  shall  grasp  the  secret,  ages  old? 
What,  then,  the  miracle  of  Easter  day? 

What  meant  the  riven  tomb,  the  hidden  Might 
That  conquered  Death  and  rolled  the  stone  away 

And  brought  the  Master  back  to  mortal  sight? 
This!  That  throughout  the  worlds,  One  Life,  unbroken, 

Rushes  and  flames  in  an  eternal  vow. 
Death  can  not  be,  and  never  has  been  spoken — 

God  and  Immortal  Life  are  here  and  now!" 


74 


THE  LIBEL. 

When  shall  the  libel  of  old  age  be  struck 

From  that  fair  coin,  man's  body?    Nature  burns 

With  big  desire  to  brand  the  lie,  to  pluck 

From  plastic  flesh  the  symbol  that  she  spurns; 

Pouring  her  precious  treasure  without  stint 
That  man,  made  over  like  the  new  born  child 
Shall  have,  each  year,  a  body  undefiled, 

Shining  and  clean  from  heaven's  unfailing  mint. 

Too  long  has  superstition  paid  the  toll 

To  this  supreme,  insatiable  sin! 
Man,  in  Life's  image,  dying  with  his  dole, 

Housed  with  the  worm,  to  dust  and  ashes  kin. 
There  is  no  crime  against  the  human  race 

More  terrible  than  age — to  take  new  gold 

Perfect  and  pure  from  the  eternal  mould 
And  stamp  so  huge  a  falsehood  on  its  face. 


75 


How  dare  we  halt  and  shrivel  with  the  years? 

How  dare  we  bow  to  death,  decay  and  age 
When  Life,  that  thunders  through  a  million  spheres, 

Terrific  torrent  of  creative  rage, 
Sings  in  our  sinews,  laughs  within  the  blood, 

Cries,  "Counterfeit!"  to  man's  poor  tale  of  blight; 

Shouts,  "I  can  make  you  over  in  a  night, 
If  ye  but  yield  to  my  renewing  flood." 

O  man,  predestined  creature  of  the  sun, 

Speak,  in  thy  might,  but  the  stupendous  Truth — 

Thy  thought,  thy  will,  thine  aim  and  Nature's  one — 
And  thou  shalt  know  at  last  eternal  youth! 


76 


GOD'S  MAN. 

Man  is  not  dust,  man  is  not  dust,  I  say  I 

A  lightning  substance  through  his  being  runs; 
A  flame  he  knows  not  of  illumes  his  clay — 

The  cosmic  fire  that  feeds  the  swarming  suns. 
As  giant  worlds,  sent  spinning  into  space, 

Hold  in  their  center  still  the  parent  flame; 
So  man,  within  that  undiscovered  place — 

His  center — stores  the  light  from  which  he  came. 

Think  of  the  radiant  energy  that  lies 

Hoarded  in  secret  chambers  of  the  earth; 
Think  of  the  marvels  drawn  from  out  the  skies — 

Light,  beauty,  power,  of  electric  birth. 
Then  what  of  man,  who  is  himself  a  world; 

Into  whose  being  conscious  forces  pour? 
Since  from  the  central  sun  his  soul  was  hurled, 

What  of  the  glory  thundering  at  his  core  ? 


77 


Man  is  not  flesh;  man  is  not  flesh,  but  fire  I 

His  senses  cheat  him  and  his  vision  lies. 
Swifter  and  keener  than  his  soul's  desire, 

The  flame  that  mothers  him  eludes  his  eyes. 
Pulsing  beneath  all  bodies,  ere  begun; 

Flashing  and  thrilling  close  behind  the  screen, 
A  sacred  substance,  blinding  as  the  sun, 

Yearns  for  man's  recognition  in  the  seen. 

We  walk  blindfolded  in  a  world  of  light — 

We  could  touch  hands  with  angels,  if  we  would; 
Could,  with  a  single  utterance  of  might, 

Commune  with  a  celestial  brotherhood. 
So  sheer  the  veil,  one  thrust  of  faith  could  rend 

The  vast  illusion  of  our  erring  sense; 
The  facts  we  fear,  the  shapes  we  comprehend, 

Are  but  the  flimsiest  tissues  of  pretense! 

The  times  are  anguished,  for  man  feels  the  press 

Of  his  divinity;  through  travail  pains 
The  urge  is  goading  him  till  he  confess 

The  splendor  that  is  crying  through  his  veins. 
Uncover,  man !    Thy  heaven  self  is  gold. 

Gladden  the  eyes  of  Him  who  made  thee  good 
In  that  first  morning  when  the  worlds  were  told 

And  Primal  Word  pronounced  thine  angelhood! 


78 


Dust!     Why,  the  Future  laughs  at  our  dull  sight; 

Laughs  at  the  judgment  linking  man  to  sod — 
Damning  him  ever  with  decay  and  blight 

When  at  his  center  burns  the  blaze  of  God! 
The  Force  that  flung  the  far  suns  into  space 

Pushes  and  throbs  through  an  eternal  plan; 
The  Mind  that  chains  the  singing  stars  in  place 

Implores  fulfilment  in  the  soul  of  man. 

O  God,  give  us  the  whirlwind  vision!     Let  us  see, 

Clear-eyed,  that  flame  creation  we  call  earth, 
And  man,  the  shining  image,  like  to  Thee. 

Let  the  new  age  come  swiftly  to  the  birth, 
When  this — Thy  world — shall  know  itself  divine; 

And  mortals,  waking  from  their  dream  of  sense, 
Shall  ask  no  proof,  no  message,  and  no  sign — 

Man's  larger  sight  the  unanswerable  evidence! 


79 


THE  WOMAN. 

It  is  she  who  makes  ready  the  army  when  day  is  at 

hand, 

When  the  bugle  of  labor  is  blowing  its  mighty  com 
mand. 
Oh,  fierce  are  the  feet  of  the  workers  who  answer  the 

call, 
But  swifter  and  fiercer  the  toil  that  hath  weaponed 

them  all. 
Do  we  boast  of  their  brawn?  Do  we  trumpet  the  cause 

of  the  fighter 

Who  marches  at  rise  of  the  sun? 
Lo!  look  to  the  woman!     The  heat  of  her  labor  is 

whiter . 

Ere  the  work  of  the  world  has  begun 
She  is  up,  and  her  banners  are  flying  from  yard  and 

from  alley, 
The    roofs    are    a-flutter   with  eloquent  streamers  of 

snow, 

Oh,  not  for  a  moment  her  passionate  fingers  may  dally, 
Till  the  soldier  is  shod  and  is  fed  and  made  ready 

to  go. 


81 


Oh,  weary  the  heart  of  the  host  when  the  battle  is 

done, 

But  the  woman  is  laboring  still  with  the  set  of  the  sun. 
Does  the  worker  return?    She  is  able  and  eager  with 

bread. 
Does  he  faint?    There  is  cheer  for  his  soul  and  delight 

for  his  head. 
Do  we  trumpet  our  gain?    Do  we  sing  of  our  land  and 

its  thunder 

Of  factory,  quarry  and  mill? 
Lo!  look  to  the  woman!    Her  love,  it  hath  compassed 

the  wonder, 

And  the  army  swings  on  at  her  will. 
For  hers  is  the  whip,  and  her  spur  is  the  fighter's  sal 
vation — 

In  the  strength  of  Jehovah  she  comes. 
Her  faith  is  the  sword  and  her  thrift  is  the  shield  of 

the  nation, 
And  her  courage  is  greater  than  drums. 

March,  march,  march,  to  your  victories,  O  Man! 
Fight,  fight,  fight,  as  you've  fought  since  time  began. 
But  she  who  hath  wed  you  and  fed  you  and  sped  you, 
Fulfilling  Eternity's  laws, 
It  is  she  who  hath  soldiered  the  Cause  1 


82 


HOW  IS  FILIPPA  TO  LIVE  ? 

How  is  Filippa  to  live?    Will  you  say, 

You  lords  of  finance,  who  meagerly  pay 

That  your  profits  may  crown  you  the  kings  of  to-day? 

You,  whose  yachts  and  whose  motors,  whose  houses 

and  lands 

Are  bought  by  the  labor  of  Filippa's  hands, 
Do  you  know  of  a  way  that  the  body  be  fed 
Save  by  bread? 

In  a  world  where  the  price  of  one's  breathing  is  gold, 
Can  you  tell  of  a  way  one  may  shelter  from  cold 
Save  by  roofs  that  are  rented  for  dollars  and  cents? 
Yet  you  dare  to  reward  with  your  miserly  pence ! 
Do  you  dream  she  could  thrive  on  the  pittance  you 

give? 
Speak !    How  is  Filippa  to  live  ? 

How  is  Filippa  to  live?     Can  you  tell? 
Did  you  ever  go  down  when  misfortune  befell? 
Are  you  willing  to  stand  as  the  pickets  of  hell 
When  a  frail  woman  creature  is  struggling  alone 
And  hunger  and  lack  are  a  bite  in  the  bone  ? 


83 


You,  who  fatten  and  prosper  on  Filippa's  tears, 
On  her  delicate  years, 

Do  you  know  how  the  breath  can  be  kept  in  a  man 
Without  food,  without  fire?    Have  you  heard  of  a 

plan, 

Can  you  tell  of  a  way?    Only  speak!    She  will  hear, 
She  will  bend,  oh,  so  gladly,  her  desperate  ear. 
She  is  eager  to  fight  on  the  pittance  you  give, 
Yet — How  is  Filippa  to  live  ? 

Filippa  is  fair  and  her  hands  are  like  lace, 

There  is  love  in  her  heart,  there  are  dreams  in  her  face 

As  she  bends  to  her  task  with  a  beautiful  grace. 

Filippa  is  pure  as  your  sister  or  wife, 

Unknowing  as  they  the  fierce  evil  of  life, 

But  her  clothing  is  worn,  and  her  shoes  are  so  thin, 

And  the  price  of  relief — for  Filippa — is  sin. 

When  the  soles  of  her  feet 

Meet  the  snow  of  the  street, 

And  the  great  primal  instinct  comes  shouting  its  claim, 

Who  can  frown?    Who  can  blame? 

Ah,  the  beggarly  pittance  you  give — 

Think!    How  is  Filippa  to  live? 


84 


Can  you  look?    Do  you  see?    Can  you  sit  at  your  ease 
O  sleek  money  prince,  can  you  live  as  you  please 
When  you  know  in  your  soul  you  have  harmed  "one  of 
these"? 

You,  who  profit  while  she  and  her  sisters  go  down, 
You,  who  barter  her  body  to  buy  you  a  crown ! 
Shame,  shame  on  the  nation  that  shelters  this  wrong 
While  praising  Jehovah  with  prayer  and  with  song. 
And  shame  to  the  women  who  shrug  and  who  sigh, 
But  offer  no  help  as  Filippa  goes  by. 
Why,  the  whole  world  of  women  should  rise  to  de 
mand 

That  value  be  paid  for  the  work  of  her  hand; 
And  the  whole  world  of  men  should  do  battle  as  one 
For  the  sake  of  all  women,  till  justice  is  done. 

For  the  crime  is  not  done  to  Filippa  alone — 
The  whole  race  must  suffer,  the  race  must  atone; 
And  the  race,  it  must  fight  you,  O  king,  till  you  give 
Filippa  a  reason  to  live! 


85 


CHRISTIAN! 

Christian!    Who  calls  us  Christian?    We, 
Who  trumpet  our  creed  from  sea  to  sea, 
Who  bridge  the  ocean  with  eager  hands 
To  rescue  the  pagan  of  other  lands, 
Yet  breed  our  criminals  in  the  womb — 
Product  of  factory  and  loom 
Where  mothers,  toiling  from  early  morn, 
Barter  the  strength  of  the  child  unborn. 

Oh,  did  we  live  the  Christian  creed, 

Did  we  feel  the  blade  of  human  need, 

Would  millions  of  men  be  underfed 

And  others  surfeited  with  bread? 

Could  we  take  these  counterfeit  shapes  of  men, 

Drive  them,  cheat  them,  starve  them — then, 

When  the  God-spark  burst  in  rebellious  flame, 

Curse  them  with  prison  and  with  shame, 

Shut  them  from  starlight  and  the  sun, 

Punished  for  crimes  that  we  have  done? 

Criminals  we  call  them — we ! 

For  our  eyes  are  holden;  we  cannot  see 

Fruit  of  exhausted  motherhood 

Slaving  to  earn  the  daily  food. 


86 


Christian!    Who  calls  us  Christian?    We, 

Who  chant  our  hymns  of  a  life  to  be, 

And  close  our  eyes  to  the  living  sore 

Eating  its  way  to  the  nation's  core; 

Who  flaunt  our  virtues  throughout  the  earth, 

Singing  the  great  Redeemer's  birth, 

While  evils  naked  within  the  land 

Cry  for  the  swift  destroyer's  hand. 

Oh,  could  we  hurl  the  Christian  speech 

Wherever  the  whip  of  God  could  reach, 

Would  little  children,  against  His  will, 

Labor  in  factory  and  mill, 

Thwarting  the  Maker's  perfect  plan, 

When  out  of  his  love  he  created  man? 

Oh,  could  we  rage  as  the  Saviour  raged, 

Would  innocence  be  trapped  and  caged, 

The  virtue  of  woman  bought  and  sold 

For  the  sin  of  man  that  is  ages  old? 

We  would  scourge  them  all  from  the  holy  place, 

Thieves  that  plunder  the  human  race. 

Christian!     Who  calls  us  Christian?    We, 

Who  poison  the  veins  of  the  race  to  be ! 


87 


Not  till  we  give  God's  man  a  chance, 

Shall  we  see  humanity's  whole  advance. 

Man  shall  not  realize  his  dream, 

Till  motherhood  is  the  gift  supreme. 

Not  till  the  meanest  has  his  place 

In  the  forward  march  of  the  human  race; 

Not  till  the  poorest  has  the  right 

To  love  and  honor  and  food  and  light; 

Not  till  the  weakest  knows  his  might, 

Till  we  free  the  captive  and  sheathe  the  sword; 

Not  till  we  stand  before  the  Lord — 

A  nation  splendid  and  unafraid, 

Made  in  the  image  that  God  made, 

No  man  a  tyrant  and  none  a  slave, 

Shall  the  world  be  saved,  as  he  meant  to  save  I 


88 


THE  COMING  MAN. 

A  man  cries  out  in  the  wilderness, 

And  he  has  a  terrible  thing  to  tell. 

He  cries  aloud  to  age  and  youth — 

His  words  are  hot  with  the  sting  of  truth 

And  fierce  as  the  bite  of  hell. 

A  man  cries  out  in  the  wilderness, 

For  his  heart  is  raw  to  the  world's  distress; 

His  soul  is  seared  with  the  people's  shame, 

And  his  message  brands  like  flame. 

Oh,  his  breast  is  scarred  and  his  hands  are  torn. 

He  has  blazed  the  trail  through  hate  and  scorn. 

Vice  and  ignorance,  wrong  and  wrack — 

These  are  the  foes  he  has  beaten  back; 

These  are  the  beasts  he  holds  at  bay, 

And  he  cries:     "Make  way!     Make  way! 

Make  way  for  the  race  that  is  to  be — 

The  conquering  race,  the  coming  man, 

Clean,  courageous,  intrepid,  free, 

Pure  as  the  great  God's  plan. 


Dream  of  the  ages — a  vision  dim — 

Martyrs  have  burned  and  died  for  him ; 

Prophets  have  preached  him,  unafraid; 

For  him  we  have  wept,  we  have  prayed." 

A  man  cries  out  in  the  wilderness, 

And  the  lightning's  wrath  is  in  his  face. 

A  man  cries  out  in  the  wilderness, 

And  he  -pleads  for  the  human  race. 

For  I  tell  you,  a  race  shall  come  to  birth, 

Godlike,  glorious,  on  this  earth, 

As  far  in  advance  of  present  man 

As  the  heavens  that  we  scan. 

Did    we  dream  it  could  breed  from  low  desire? 

Did  we  dream  it  could  rise  from  bestial  mire? 

Could  the  beautiful,  celestial  thing 

From  lust  and  lechery  spring? 

A  man  cries  in  the  wilderness, 

And  his  heart  is  raw  to  the  world's  distress. 

With  terrible  truth  his  feet  are  shod, 

"Make  way — make  way  for  the  sons  of  God!" 


90 


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